This time, the rock ’n ’roll tunes didn’t help her. She couldn’t chase away the images of the afternoon of bizarre events that paraded across her mind. Everything swirled together. She’d been distracted, thinking about her father when she’d met the SUV that had nearly run her off the road. She tried to recall more details about the vehicle. She wished she’d seen the license plates. Surely, the county authorities were searching for it.
Who was she kidding? When she started talking about a terrorist plot, Frizz Dodson’s eyes glazed over. From his expression, he definitely wasn’t interested in her theory, preferring to believe that Billy Dan suffered a poacher’s stray shot. She didn’t believe his poacher theory for a second. She was lucky the lawman didn’t want to haul her in for smoking wacky weed. Course if he did, he wouldn’t get home in time for dinner. Dodson had priorities, for which she was grateful.
Then who shot Billy Dan?
A dread as cold as an Arctic blast washed over her. She knew the answer. It was whoever was driving the green SUV. The tracks she saw in the driveway had to be made by the shooters. She’d ask Frizz to check out the tread marks. That is, if they hadn’t been obscured by all the traffic.
The terrorists wanted rid of Billy Dan because somehow they’d known that he’d seen the schematic and understood what it meant.
Pulling out on to Highway 34, Rhetta marveled at all the twinkling lights glittering around her. Although she was several miles west of Marble Hill, she realized that the area wasn’t nearly as isolated as she’d always thought. Anytime she’d ever come out this way before, it was daytime, and the landscape of trees and pasture always seemed to stretch for miles. Tonight, lights blinked and winked at her from both sides of the highway as she gunned Cami, rapidly reaching, then exceeding the speed limit.
Cami glided effortlessly around a gentle curve, and Rhetta had just begun to relax when a flicker caught her eye. She glanced to the side. House lights and pole lights winked out. The same happened across the highway. She stole a glance in her rear view mirror. She saw nothing but pitch darkness behind her. She’d just passed Green’s Grocery. The sign had been awash in light from four old fashioned light fixtures that arched out over the sign from the top, reminding her of gooseneck desk lamps. Now, there was only darkness where the bright store lights had been.
A power outage. Her heart thumped until she decided that it wasn’t that unusual during hot days and heavy summer usage. A single substation could easily overload and cause a temporary brown out.
As she raced eastward, the phenomenon of extinguishing lights continued. She felt disoriented. There were no other cars on the road, no headlights or taillights to give her a sense of the roadway. The inky blackness made her feel like she’d driven into the Twilight Zone. She felt eerily alone, as though everyone had left the planet and turned off the lights on their way out. Her heart rate sped up again. This ongoing blacking out shouldn’t be happening!
Reaching the edge of Marble Hill, she sped past the Welcome sign before realizing that the normally illuminated sign was dark. In fact, the whole town was in darkness.
This was no brown out.
An announcer interrupted her tunes. She turned the volume up. “There appears to be a major power failure in rural Bollinger County in Southeast Missouri. Listeners have reported an outage that stretches from Grassy east to the Cape Girardeau County line. We are unable to reach Inland Electric. As soon as we can confirm the cause, we will interrupt with a report. For now, we take you back to our regular programming.” The Guess Who resumed belting out American Woman.
Rhetta reached over and lowered the volume.
A quick glance at her cell phone confirmed that she had three bars. At least the cell towers were still working. She had to call Woody. This blackout had to be part of the plot involving the schematic.
She didn’t stop at the sheriff’s office in Marble Hill to sign her statement. She doubted anyone had worked on it. Besides, Frizz Dodson would have his hands full with the power out all over his county. She sped on through town. Approaching the east edge of town, she slowed, remembering an intersection. At Merc’s, dozens of patrons spilled out of the restaurant, heading for their rides. Several clusters of people milled around, as though unsure what to do.
At the four-way stop, the traffic signal was out. Although dozens of vehicles were maneuvering through the intersection, no one honked and no one appeared to be impatient. Everyone acted calmly, each driver giving the other a turn at going through. That, she reasoned, was a benefit of the friendship and camaraderie of a small town. It still took forever for her turn. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she inched forward.
Finally after several long minutes, she made it through the intersection. She raced alon highway 34 toward Cape. Reaching the power substation at Center Junction, she downshifted, slowing for the five Inland Electric trucks parked along the shoulder with their emergency flashers on. A dozen men in hard hats had gathered around the darkened substation. After she was safely past, she shifted again, and Cami throttled forward.
They’ll get the power up soon. She’d never known these summer outages to endure more than a few hours.
“Not this time,” argued a voice inside her head. Her gut agreed. This was more than temporary.
Flying across the bridge where Randolph had wrecked, Rhetta cringed, not daring a look over the side where his truck had gone. She checked her rear view mirror for the hundredth time since leaving Billy Dan’s. At any moment she fully expected a green SUV to fill the reflection.
Her thoughts flew to Randolph. What about the hospital? Was it also without power? She held her phone aloft and pushed the button to illuminate the screen. She needed to talk to him, but all she saw was “No Service.” She tossed it to the passenger seat.
A few minutes later, Rhetta approached the city of Jackson, just west of Cape. She stared mutely through the windshield, a horrible sense of déjà vu washing over her. The city’s lights began disappearing. Soon, the city itself all but vanished. The only remaining visible light came from a radio tower. She’d heard the towers had battery backup in case of a power failure, allowing the position lights to remain lighted so that planes wouldn’t run into them. Here and there, an isolated light winked on. Probably from home generators that began kicking in.
She and Randolph had purchased a whole house propane-powered generator three years ago after suffering a five-day loss of power during an ice storm. She wondered if it had kicked on. What had the installer said? It was supposed to kick in after ten seconds, or something like that. They’d never needed it since the ice storm.
The car radio fell silent. She fiddled with the knob, turning the volume up. Nothing but static. She hit the search and finally found a weak broadcast from a Memphis station. The sporadic crackling made the announcer difficult to understand.
Except that she clearly understood when he said, “Major blackout in the Cape Girardeau, Missouri area.”
* * *
Crawling along with the snarled traffic on Jackson Boulevard, the main east-west thoroughfare through Jackson to Cape, Rhetta took time to snatch her phone and speed dialed Woody. Approaching a vacant lot, she pulled in to talk on her phone. With no traffic lights operating, the traffic was much worse in Jackson than it had been in Marble Hill and the drivers much more impatient. Horns blared, and headlights blinked as motorists expressed their unhappiness.
The call went through!
“Woody, it’s happening,” she said when he answered.
“What? What are you talking about?” She could hear radio or television static in the background.
“The power grid. It’s going down. It’s the terrorists. Don’t you see?”
“God, Rhetta, what are you saying? You can’t believe that.” Rhetta heard shuffling and knew Woody held a hand over the phone while he shouted, “Jenn, the generator is in the garage. I’ll get it.”
When he came back, his voice was strained. “Look, it
’s crazy here. I gotta go and hook up the generator.”
She couldn’t let him hang up. “Woody, wait, I’m telling you, it’s happening. I haven’t told you about Billy Dan. I think the terrorists are implementing their plan right now and—“
Woody interrupted her. “What? What about Billy Dan?”
“Someone shot him this afternoon. I found him badly injured in his boat. Look, I’ll tell you about it when I see you. I’m almost to Cape. I’m on my way to your house right now.”
She pulled back on to the highway and gunned Cami. The Corvette engine delivering four hundred horsepower gave her plenty of punch to roar ahead of a Dodge minivan.
“Find your hunting rifle, Woody and get it ready. We have to stop them.”
CHAPTER 40
Once past Jackson, Rhetta flew up the on-ramp to the interstate and pushed the Camaro toward Cape.
Woody hadn’t said anything after she told him that Billy Dan had been shot, probably because she hadn’t given him the chance. She disconnected after informing him she was on her way. She needed Woody with his 30-06 rifle and his military expert marksman skill. She’d thought about detouring home and getting some of Randolph’s hunting rifles and shotguns, but they were locked in the gun safe. She couldn’t remember where Randolph kept the key. Besides, Woody’s house was closer.
Rhetta was certain that the power substations were under attack. Likewise, she realized that only she and Randolph understood what was going on. And Woody. He understood. He was just in denial. They were the only ones left who’d seen the schematic. Is that why Randolph was run off the bridge? Because someone knew he’d seen the schematic? Only she and Woody were in a position to do something. Time after time, she tried getting the law to help her. Law enforcement didn’t believe her. It was up to her and Woody to get to the substations and stop the terrorists.
With the blackout occurring first in Bollinger County and now moving to west Cape County, she remembered the list of substations that she’d memorized. She had to visualize the map, and determine where the next outage would occur. By her calculation, there were still three substations left. The one in Glen Allen was out, as was the one on Highway 34 at Center Junction. Just now the one serving Cape Girardeau County and City, which was the one on County Road 637, had surely gone down.
She and Woody needed to get to the next substation ahead of whoever was responsible. There were two left. They needed to decide whether to go to Perry County or to Scott County. Those two substations were at least fifty miles apart.
There had to be a team of individuals responsible for the substations going down. How else could that many transformers fail so quickly? One man or a pair of men couldn’t be traveling to all of them that quickly. Would she and Woody be too late to save any of the substations?
Had that team originally included Al-Serafi who died with a schematic in his car? How did he die? And why? So many questions, so little time.
The FBI had ignored her and Woody, and Sheriff Dodson today had treated her as if she was on crack. Even so, she decided to call the FBI again. She reached for her cell phone and punched it the St. Louis number that she’d memorized. The number rang until it went to voice mail. She disconnected without leaving a message. Then she tried 9-1-1, hoping to reach the local police or highway patrol. She wasn’t sure where her cell phone call would go. She remembered reading somewhere that cell phone 9-1-1 calls were seldom routed locally.
A dispatcher answered on the fourth ring. “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“Is this the Cape Girardeau police?”
“Yes, ma’am. What is your emergency?” asked the female dispatcher, her voice harried and clipped.
“Can I speak with Sergeant Risko? It’s about the power outages. I think I know what’s causing them.”
“Hold please.” Rhetta heard the familiar clicking sounds indicating that her call was being recorded.
She thought about what she and Woody needed to do. Her stomach tightened into a knot. Could she get the police to help them? Did Woody believe that they were under attack? She’d find out soon enough.
A voice came on the line. “What is your name please and what is it you want to report?”
“I’d like to speak to Sergeant Risko.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, we have no way to reach Sergeant Risko. This is the 9-1-1 call center. This is Officer Len Brightwell. I can try and help you. Please state your name.”
“Rhetta McCarter.” She took a deep breath, frustrated at having to start her story yet again, but plunged forward. “The power substations are going down because there’s a terrorist plot to take out the Midwest power grid by damaging the power transformers in each of the substations.” She waited for him to ask her to elaborate.
Silence.
“Did you hear me?” Rhetta said, her voice rising.
He sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I did.” Then with reluctance evident in his tone, he continued, “Who did you say is taking out these power transformers?”
“I didn’t say. I’m not sure who, and I’m not sure why. What I can tell you, is that there are maybe three substations left, one south of Marble Hill, one at Flatt Junction in Scott County, and one on County Road 1458 in Perry County, although I think the one south of Marble Hill is out by now.”
“All right, ma’am. We’ll look into that. Thank you for calling.”
The line went dead.
He didn’t believe her. Perhaps if she’d been able to talk to Risko, he’d have remembered her from interviewing her at Peter LaRose’s apartment and not dismissed her so quickly.
It was obvious. She’d get no help from the police.
Rhetta badly needed to hear her husband’s voice, to get his assurance that stopping the cascading power failure was the right thing to do. Especially, she needed to know that he was all right. She speed dialed the hospital.
“All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.” The tinny sounding message repeated in a loop. She tossed her iPhone into the console. The phone system appeared to be down. She’d keep trying.
She whispered, “Randolph, you have to be all right. I can’t come right now. I got stuff to take care of. I love you.”
I got stuff to take care of was an expression her mother had always used when called Rhetta to tell her she’d be home late from work. Many nights Rhetta, an only child, fell asleep on the couch waiting for her mother to come home from one of her two regular jobs. Sometimes her mother never showed up, and Rhetta woke up to an empty house the following morning.
She pushed her memories away and accelerated to a hundred miles an hour.
Within minutes, she braked for the first exit into Cape. On the left, three blocks from the exit ramp on William Street sat St. Mark’s Hospital. To her relief, she saw lights. The hospital must be getting power from its own series of massive generators. She sent a silent prayer heavenward to keep Randolph safe. For someone who’d quit going to church and who’d been mad at God, she’d sure been sending up a lot of prayers lately. What was it they said about there being no atheists in foxholes? She felt like she was definitely in a foxhole now.
Woody lived about two miles farther, near the university campus. Rhetta merged into the eastbound traffic on an eerily dark William Street. Normally, the four-lane boulevard was as brightly lit as the Las Vegas Strip, especially near the Interstate. Now, the various fast food restaurants, hotels, bars, and the shopping mall where Jenn worked were cloaked in inky blackness. Rhetta had never seen anything like this.
The chaos she found herself in was straight out of a horror movie. Cars, pickups, SUVs, taxis, and busses all clamored for the right-of-way through every intersection. Again and again, brakes screeched, followed by the sickening sounds of metal crunching metal.
She was forced to stop at the Kingshighway intersection barricaded by angry motorists. Although the other side was where she needed to be, she wasn’t going to get across any time soon. She also couldn’t turn around. She decided that
once across, she’d get on a side street away from the main thoroughfare, or Cami would wind up a crushed tin can.
Finally, she was able to inch her way across Kingshighway. In a desperate attempt to get out from the confusion of cars on William Street, she took the first right. In two blocks, the street dead-ended. She veered left. There was little traffic. She found herself in an unfamiliar neighborhood, one that she recalled hearing about, where women shouldn’t travel, especially after dark. She should’ve turned left off William Street, not right. She’d gone the wrong way.
Two blocks later, she veered left on to West End Boulevard, an old-fashioned divided four lane with a median full of trees and flower beds. Although the traffic squeezed bumper to bumper on the street, at least everyone on her side of the median was traveling in the same direction.
Just before arriving at the cluster of traffic that signaled a return to William Street, a late model Cadillac Seville poured out of a side street and cut her off. It sped across both lanes as it headed for a left-hand turn lane ahead. Rhetta slammed her brakes, barely avoiding a collision. After the black Seville rocketed past her, she pulled up to William Street, stopped, and waited. The endless traffic wouldn’t break long enough for her to cross. Impatient, and unable to bear waiting another minute, she turned right, even though she was surely going out of her way. She plodded along slowly, forced to stop several times before managing to worm her way into the left lane. Woody lived on the other side of William. The agonizingly slow traffic ate up precious minutes.
Where were the terrorists heading next? If she and Woody couldn’t stop them, the Midwest grid would completely crash.
That realization spurred her to floor the gas pedal. Imitating the Seville, she tore off left across two lanes amid loud honking and screeching of brakes. She careened on to Henderson Street, which snaked past the university campus and on to Woody’s house. Approaching the campus, she eased up, fearing another crush of traffic and wanting to avoid another right turn. Could she make all right turns and still go left? She didn’t think so.
Killerwatt Page 17
